Beauty in its Ugliest Forms
by ooihcnoiwlerh
Summary: Pavi's been having nightmares. Just a drabble on our favorite masked romantic, set prior to the film.


I do not own Repo! the Genetic Opera. It belongs to creators Darren Smith and Terrance Zdunich.

_A long-winded explanatory note on why I'm writing this instead of chapter six for Now we are Two_: Pavi fascinated me for many reasons. One of them being that the incredible Nivek Ogre played him in the film, partly because Pavi is just so strange and, for the most part, has no explanation. Part of it is that since my interest **cough**(obsession)***hack*** in Repo has shifted to art as well, and I'm currently painting a portrait of Pavi that will go on DeviantArt as: "Pavi Largo: Italian Beauty" I just had to write something. This interpretation is similar to what I plan on doing with him when he pops up in "Now we are Two", where I will continue his nightmares.

There's no "Largocest" in this, though parts can be used to imply otherwise, if that's what floats your boat.

_Pavi's been having nightmares_.

They're humiliating as much as they're inconvenient, waking up the GenTern(s) or whoever else has shared his bed for the night, screaming and sobbing and ruining the inside of his latest mask. There's a switch to turn it off; he knows there is, and he's used it before, but he's damned if he can find it now.

"No! Oh God, no! Please! Please…per favore…"

The worst part, to him at least (to the GenTerns, it's probably the task of going back to sleep at three in the morning for a six AM shift) is that he cannot remember any of these dreams when he wakes up, only that it sends him into hysterical pleas, although sometimes he wakes up screaming apologies in two different languages; an endless loop of "_Sorry! I'm sorry!…No…Mi perdoni!" _He has a pretty good idea what_ that_ portends, and it maddens him. He shouldn't be apologizing to a nameless, literally faceless ghost. He's Pavi Largo, for God's sakes. He needs a new face every so often, and he's certain a true loyal citizen wouldn't mind sacrificing something of theirs for the Paviche. Why can't they leave him alone? He already has enough people around him as it is, like a safety net, meant to keep such horrors away.

Once, that older, ugly, ape of a brother kept needling Pavi on why he always brings at least one or two women to bed. "I'll see them go into your room and see them stumble back out with half their clothes in hand in the morning," he said. "What is it? A slumber party?"

Pavi, a generally honest man at the very least, said, "I cannot bear to sleep alone." And it's true. There's nothing worse than having to lie in the dark with no one else.

He needs affection. He needs to know that there are people who love him, because whatever love has existed in the family, it dried up once they became capable of yelling at each other and wielding weapons, pottery, or anything that can inflict bodily harm. Luigi may prefer violence (frequently with sex; in fact, he sees sex and murder as perfectly enjoyable combination), but all that makes Pavi uneasy. He's not a fighter, after all. He's a lover; has been since he was a twelve-year-old boy in search of anyone willing to satiate his curiosity. It's narcotic, the feeling of soft skin and warm flesh, people who make him feel special because he is; they're usually nubile, (happily) compliant GenTerns that remind him that, in spite of everything, he isn't a villain. He's a charmer, a lover, an entertainer, and, above all, he's gorgeous.

"_It's a shame. They say he was such a beautiful boy."_

He'd heard this before, more than once, and each time it's vexed him. "was"? What's the deal with this "was"? Still, there are gaps in his memory, lapses that stretch for years at a time, particularly during his childhood. He's heard stories, seen pictures, and he can safely say that a handsomer child never existed, but there are things not even he can truly explain. What led him to gradually destroy his own face by the time he was twenty-five, for instance. He once told Father about these memory lapses, who'd said only, "Thank God."

"_Why do you talk in that fucking fruity accent? You've never even _been _to Italy." _The words of his brother (of course). He can't explain it, doesn't care to elaborate, and certainly doesn't plan on retiring it. It's kind of cute, in his mind. Authenticity is an endangered concept, but at least he's trying. He just knows that he's called to that culture; it's been a part of him since the womb, and he's closer to the lost feeling of Europe than anyone else, even Father. These were the people that knew how to dress, that knew how to drink, that knew how to pleasure women, and what could possibly be wrong with wanting to emulate that?

"_You wear you accent like your masks. I have no idea who you even are, under all of that." _

Does it matter? He's different from them, and that's all he cares about. All he wants in this world are pleasure, affection, beauty, women, and a stylish wardrobe. It doesn't usually bother him that he doesn't even know what started his obsession with feminine beauty, or why he's always wanted the same features for himself, because he rarely lets himself think past what is necessary for the moment, not that no procedure satisfied him, not until his mangled, raw skin needed something more immediate than simple refinements, and the solution to ending the pain he felt when his face was bare to the elements turned out to be what he had wanted in the first place. It's a strange look, certainly, but he deserves it.

He's special.

He doesn't think about the women whose beauty he desires; it just wouldn't do to get sentimental over something like that. He sees the face, he wants the face, he gets the face, and just leaves his reasoning to "the end justifies the means." Beauty is pain, as the saying goes, and he's willing to make the sacrifice. Until now, anyway.

He wakes up to the sound of screaming; a dreadful, wordless shrill that he barely recognizes as his own, his pale skin drenched in sweat, sitting up in bed and he's shaking as though his interior temperature has situated to the outside of his body. The woman next to him has no idea what the hell to do other than pat his back as he buries his head into her shoulder above her breast, gasping and whimpering, hardly remembering how to breathe.

"Mr. Largo—Pavi…what's wrong?" she says timidly; she hasn't been around the last four nights, so she's probably as frightened as he, though she tries her best to calm him down, petting his hair, pulling her free arm around him, wondering if the younger Largo boy is going insane. It wouldn't be a surprise.

And all Pavi can say is, "I don't know."


End file.
